Open Anything For A Kill

Den Merillion, South-East of Cloud's Keep
The month of Azokith, 350 E.O.D
The Sun rises...

The Den was always quiet first thing in the morn. Before the cock crowed, before the insensenate slept off their hangovers. It was a time where peace and reflection held hands over a bowl of stew. The stoves were lit. Last night's mess had been swept or scrubbed up. The staff were wakeful, and ready with the gossip. For an old hand like him, they were extra helpful, doting on him, as one might their favourite grandparent. Somedays, he felt his age. Others, he was too busy trying not to die to remember what being young felt like.

'Another bowl, old man?'

Before he could respond, the empty was being whisked away, only for another, fuller bowl to take its place. 'My thanks,' he grumbled, looking up at the maid who had brought it to him. 'How much do I owe?' She was young, about his daughter's age. When she smiled at him, he was transported back in time, to a place he would sooner forget. 'Nothing,' she replied, setting an unopened envelope down on the table beside his stew. 'Your meals and lodgings have been covered,' her fingers brushed the back of his hand. 'For what it's worth... I truly am sorry.' Tusk watched as she strode away, his expression stoic.

Slowly, he returned to his morning meal, ignoring the bustle of newcomers arriving with the dawn, and the groans of heavy-headed residents waking from what few winks they had managed to steal whilst the sky was still dark outside. The envelope held bad news indeed, if the Denmaster was covering his expenses.

Drawing his dagger, Tusk slit the top of the envelope open, steady hands tracing the lines of something held within, circular, and solid.

Setting aside the blade, he upended the contents of the envelope into his palm.

The piece of Maldizia fell fastest, dark as Midnight's shores. The coin itself was chipped around the edges, but even worn by age, it still retained its value as well as its meaning. 'I see,' he sighed, yesteryear's aches returning to haunt him, much like the ghosts of hunters dead and gone. 'I suppose there's no helping it.'

Picking up the letter, the Soulkeeper began to read.

The stable smelled of iron, dung, and hay. Honest things, uncomplicated things.

Daniyah crouched low beside the pale mule, one knee pressed into the packed earth, the animal’s weight resting steady against her shoulder. She held the hoof firm between her thighs, rasp in hand, drawing it slow and even across the edge. Shavings curled away, pale flakes against the hard packed earth floor. The mule flicked an ear but didn’t fight her. Good stock. Smart enough not to waste energy on a losing argument.

The hunter set the rasp aside and reached for the shoe, testing the fit against the trimmed hoof. Cold iron. She preferred it for the road. Not for any superstition, she'd gutted enough wraiths to know cold iron was no guarantee of anything, but because it held an edge longer than the alloyed stuff the city smiths pushed. Whatever the farriers in Crorefell were cutting their metal with these days, it wasn't doing the mules or horses any favors.

She lifted the hammer. Three taps to seat the shoe, then the nails driven clean, one after another, the strikes ringing out in the quiet like a slow and patient heartbeat. The mule exhaled through its nose. Steam in the cold morning air.

Daniyah's own hands were less pretty than the work. The knuckles had thickened, the left ring finger sat crooked where it had healed wrong after a brawl that had left her banned from Den Emperadizo, and there was a scar running palm to wrist that she no longer bothered explaining to people. It had been a long time since anyone had asked.

She clinched the nails, snipped the points, ran the rasp around the edge one final time to smooth it flush. Then she lowered the hoof and straightened up. The mule turned its head and regarded her with one dark, liquid eye.

"You're welcome," Daniyah said.

Rowan did everything so much more slowly than the seasoned Cazadores around her. They rode through the night like it was nothing, hauled in their gear like they'd done it a thousand times. Probably had. Even the kid was packed up and heading inside before her. It took Rowan a long time to get her things off the horse, find where the tack was supposed to be hung up, and brush down the mare's buckskin coat. Not that it got her much cleaner. It was going to take a wash in the river and a long day out in the sun to get the rat stink off her hide.

The pale-eyed hunter in the next stall over was still working too, which made her feel a bit better.

The tap-tap of the driving hammer kept her company as she put more handfuls of hay into the feed bin. Garrod's mare sneezed. She'd stuffed her head into the bin too quickly and got a nose full of dust. Rowan gave the mare one last pat under the mane before gathering her things. She heaved up a heavy floral carpet back into the crook of her elbow.

Paused at the threshold. "I'll leave the lantern for you," she announced to her unseen companion, before turning down the still-dark morning path to the den.

---

"And here's the new Trapper," the Devahni at the counter said, matter-of-fact.

"Um, yes. That's right." Rowan set down her carpet bag. It clinked and clunked with heavy metal. "Rowan Maurelle, at your service." The counter was too wide to offer a hand, so she only gave a bow.

"Picked on hell of a job for your first time out. Some advice-- no no, free, this time--" Brinda had said that everything in a den came at a cost, so Rowan was already reaching for her coin purse. The handler waved her down. "You want to come back alive, don't stray too far away from One Eye out there. And don't get too close, neither."

Labors alive, was there a single Cazadore here who could say anything straight? Eyes narrowing, Rowan's face went flat. She was unimpressed with the free advice. "Right. I already know Garrod's strike zone. Thanks for the reminder, though."

She picked her carpet bag back up, and looked around to see where Brinda had run off to.

Oh, but you are a funny fucker...

Garrod couldn't help but wear his grin the wider. "Don't go and think your holy man act's got me fooled, Tusk," he gibed.

... Be a real shame, the day y'finally bite the blade.

A chuff from the One Eye. "Wouldn't be the first time I'd caught steel twixt my teeth," A sound caused him to turn. His eye wandered spied the Mouse.

...an apprentice... how you've changed.

A click of teeth as his eye cut back to the older cazadore and his softened tone. "Don't go getting any ideas, Soulkeeper," a dry look at the older man. Green eye narrowed and measured. "I'm the same ugly blade that cut down Paloma down neath Elenhage, remember?" Come the second set of feet, and Garrod spied his latest associate. Let out a whistle. "Yo, Rowan." waved her over with a black gloved hand. "Come meet yourself a real legend," he said, with that low and easy hunger of his rumbling the chords of his voice.

"Oy, Garrod!" Brinda called, running out from the trapper's. "Look at this one, look at this one!" she said waving about a knife over her head as she ran over. "I even got a dis-" froze as she saw something. Or rather someone. "Aye, I know you!" she grinned wide.

There was a big, padded arm chair right next to the fire. The kind with wide arms and a sloping wingback, perfect for curling up in and forgetting the world. Rowan wanted to sit in that chair, she deserved to fall asleep in it and wake up with funny impressions on her face and her skin sticking to the leather upholstery.

But before she could make it all the way there, Garrod interrupted her path. It was with great control and grace that Rowan left the crackling fireplace behind and came to stand next to the two Cazadores. She gave a smile and a shallow bow.

"The Soulkeeper himself," Rowan said with an appropriate measure of awe in her voice. She had read up on the legends. A ring weaver could always be relied upon to study ahead of an exam. "Is it true that you recovered the skull of Aria Maclost all on your own?"

A distraction came barreling in. Eyes widened as she saw Brinda come running through the common room with knife unsheathed.

"Whoa, there!" she reached out and caught Brinda at the wrist. Pressed thumb into palm and held tightly as she tried to get a 'look' at the knife. Rowan's other hand was poised to snatch the dangerous thing away if the girl squirmed too much.

"That's a very sharp blade you've got, Brinda. Shall I appraise it for you?"

A bight of laughter clipped against Garrod's teeth. "Righteousness," kicked up his feet on the table and leaned back in his chair. Arms dangling with the angle. "That sure is a word for it,"

Murderers murdering murderers. Monsters killing monsters. And still, he grinned at it.

Garrod's grin cut all the sharper across his scarred features, his lonely eye pointed at the little shift of a man hiding away something. "Ugly is, as ugly does, Tusk, old friend,"

A laugh barked from Garrod's throat. "Get a few drinks in the old bastard, then ask him again."

Brinda comes running, and Rowan snatches up her wrist.

"Woah! Hey now!" the youth complains trying to yank her arm away. Her big brown eyes crinkled by scars about their corners. "I don't need no apraisin! I," she struggles to get out of the stick bug's grip. "I got'n a good deal I tells you!" she grunts and grumbles. "A good deal!"

Garrod shakes his head at the lice comment. Eye cast over at Rowan and Brinda. "And with all our pieces still together," he shrugs. "So must have been," Turns his eye back to the old man. Studies him a long while. "Whats got you so dodgy, Soulkeeper?"

Garrod and the other one -- what was his real name, Dusk? Rust? -- were chatting in the way that men of some standing chatted. Saying this and that without saying much at all, because details were things with value and a professional never wanted to work for free. Rowan let them get through their formalities while she focused on the real threat: the little girl with a knife.

Stick bugs have their muscles attached directly to their exoskeletons. They are stronger than they look.

Rowan held tight, and screwed her smile tighter onto her face. "Right, of course, the make looks fine, a goodly deal indeed. But don't you know a really fine blade has a spirit. And if you don't respect it, the spirit will go dull."

She let go, hoping her words of wisdom had sunk in.


The question pricked Rowan's pointy ears. Her attentions shifted abruptly.

"Tell me it's something more interesting than pest control." She picked the seat next to the gruff orc. Didn't bother to drag the chair out further, and slipped in close. Nearly touching elbows with the hunter. She needed to remember his name posthaste. Garrod had said it just a moment ago. Definitely monosyllabic. Musk, Dust, Tusk. Ah, there it was!

She fidgeted in her seat. Raised her arms and started gathering up long hair into a bun, exposing slender neck.

"All this one's got me trapping is stinky vermin -- rats, centipedes, crabs." Rowan pouted her lips. Twist the hair in her fingers and stuck it into place with a two-tined pin. Bumped against Tusk's arm as she did so.

"You'd treat me better, wouldn't you, Tusk?"

'Received some bad news this morning,' the orkin grunted, eyes narrowed, wondering. 'Came with a fortune I'll likely ne'er find a reason to spend. Why? Worried about me?' Tusk affected a grin. It was a special occassion, after all, and new acquaintances got the benefit of the doubt. Brinda. Rowan. The orkin gazed sidelong at the elf, intrigued, aye, and wary.

The best ambushes were the ones you didn't see coming. Call it paranoia.

'Interesting. Exciting.' Brief contact, a wry smile. The pretty ones always were trouble. 'Certainly more dangerous than "trapping vermin,"' he turned to face Garrod and Brinda, mentor and mentee. They were trouble too, just of a different kind.

The envelope burning a hole in his pocket grew all the more burdensome as he weighed the three wayfarers, unsure as to whether or not it would be a kindness to keep them in the dark. Surely, knowing what he was up against, it would be. But then what good were the words that went unspoken? Besides, for all his myriad flaws, Garrod was a friend. The Fiend riding his soul less so.

Nobody was perfect.

"You'd treat me better, wouldn't you, Tusk?"

'Aye, if'n you behave.' Shifting in his seat, the big orkin settled, fingers splayed atop the opened letter where it rested upon the table. The coin remained a-pocket. Some eyes aren't meant to see. 'What do you two make o' that, pray tell?' He asked, withdrawing his hand, revealing the message writ therein. And a sketch.

"Turn around and take off your dress." Aysel didn't bother nodding or speaking, pivoting on a heel until her back was facing her mentor, Maria the Maungy Mage. Taking off her dress meant that there was soon to be danger, a hunt or a kill. Maria helped her in unfastening the buttons and ties, layers upon layers slowly being peeled off. Aysel was only allowed to wear her dress when it was time to rest, but with all it's layers and thick padding around her torso still had it feel like armor, only more suffocating like she was being swaddled into a cocoon with wool and quilted cotton.

They were outside of the den but there weren't any interested onlookers. Maria's scarred face meant she always looked intimidating. Aysel thought if anyone looked at her it was because they were shocked by her big feet. She wasn't naked anyways, for at the end of all the layers of dark dyed dress there was yet another skin-tight layer, as dark as Aysel's hair. She knelt down as she opened up her large pack, lifting out the medical kit she always carried with her. When she first began to shift, her human bones broke, again and again.

Sometimes the aggressive shifts still left her with a broken bone or two. Usually, she only had wounds from her carelessness in fights, when she followed instincts over Maria's commands. Beneath the medical kit were her ascots and ribbons, little trinkets that she collected and wore. Aysel dug down deeper, pulling out her white hunting shirt and black trousers. She had to take off her shoes to pull the trousers over skinny, angular hips. Maria helped her pull the hunting shirt over her head, fixing her hair as Aysel tucked into her pants. That was the easy part, putting everything back into her pack was the hard part.

"It's good, stop fretting." Maria said after Aysel finished shoving everything into her back, the layers upon layers of her previously worn garments making everything less neat.

"It doesn't fit right." Aysel growled, refolding all the pieces again, keeping them as thin as she could by stacking them under her knees as she tried once more to get everything to fit perfectly.

"Aysel," The smell was what had the werewolf raise her head to her mentor. Focused eyes were followed by drool, a swallow and the show of tongue scraping over the top of her mouth. Maria was holding a thin, fatty slice of dried meat. The fat was threaded through dark brown muscle fibers like a greasy, translucent yellow, framing the outside muscle. It may have been a small, thin slice, but it did it's job in getting Aysel to shove everything into her pack before swinging it onto her back as she stood up. Maria didn't hide the crooked grin as she rewarded her. "C'mon stinkybutt, into the Den, you go."

The dried meat was flaky against Aysel's tongue, the salt drying her drool. She was happy to do as Maria said, quietly chewing her meat, looking no one in the eye unless she got the sense they were looking at her. And if they did? She gave them the Evil Eye, the look that Maria had honed in her, the sort of look that made common beasts obey. The look that let everyone know she was a werewolf in lady's clothing. Big feet followed after the mage with quiet steps.

"I make that out to be a complete mess," Maria interrupted, leaning over Garrod's shoulder, not that she needed to. She had very good eyes, all mages needed to when it came to their big spellbooks with the smallest, thinnest, and sometimes messiest, writing. She was smiling as she raised her gaze to Tusk, looked over at Rowan. The Maungy Mage's travels were long, it wasn't often that she could be found in a Den. But she always seemed to be in one whenever there was something she wanted. Aysel kept gnawing on her treat. "Unless we're there by your side, of course. Aysel's got a good nose on her."

Aysel looked over at the table then, balked and shoved the rest of the jerky into her mouth. She was not sharing.

Brinda tried. And tried. To weasel and wiggle her way out. "You gods damned mantis!"

Brinda blinks. Stares at the knife. "Spirit?" Kinda reminded her of that Witch. She was good with the spirits. Brinda grinned malicious at that. Tongue remembering the taste of tequila too well.

And when she came out of it, the damned stick bug was already gone. Walking over and getting all... cozy with the old man. Her lips pursed. And she studied Rowan a moment.


Garrod gawked. "What?!" he grumbled. Shook it off. Slicked back his white crop of hair. "There is nothing wrong with hunting Harker Rats." he muttered behind bared teeth, easing back in his chair. Turned up to a grin. "Good fundamentals,"

The old man's words echoed in his skull. He let the words sink in. Let it bubble as Rowan did... whatever it was she was doing. He huffed. Looked back to the door.


"Don't fucking flatter yourself, old timer," he said while no one spoke to him. A thump from a heavy hand drew his eye back.

Eye's sight stabbed to the table. Saw the legs crawling out of all the nether and ruin.

A laugh. "Looks like lunch."
"Speaking of messes," his eye keened to see the mage, and her mutt. A smile, too full of knowing. "Worse trouble to bring along." he could take em.

Whole lot of em.

And somewhere in that black mirror hind his mind. A green fire laughed its wicked laugh.

Rowan pulled forward her armonium lenses from their chain around her neck, which doubled as regular spectacles. She peered through them from a few finger-widths away, leaning closer to the table until the drawing Tusk presented came into focus.

"Looks like it's made from multiple anima sources... that isn't a geist, is it?"

A roll of the eyes at Garrod's hungry jest. She let her glasses fall as she bandied a look at the hunter across the table. "If you cook up anything person-shaped--" she began to scold, but didn't bother finishing the thought as more passersby came to bother the poor old Soulkeeper. Well, they could stand their all awkward. There were no more chairs next to him and Rowan had gotten there first. She didn't give ground and kept her knees leaning gracefully in towards Tusk.

"Anything that took out a whole Den isn't going to care how many of us come at it," She reckoned. "We'll need more of an approach than just sheer numbers."

Volunteered herself and the others without so much as an invitation. That was a trick she'd learned from the sailors on the skydocks. Act like you belonged for long enough and people just sort of accepted you as part of the ecosystem.